


you took my hand and then we both started running (save yourself, don't ever look back)

by alittlelesssixteencandles



Series: jorso'ran kando a tome [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Brooding Teenagers, Canonical Character Death, Death Watch (Star Wars), Fluff & Angst, Jango Fett is the Mand'alor, M/M, Mandalore, Mando'a, Mutual Pining, Not completely accurate to Mandalorian culture, On the Run, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, longfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlelesssixteencandles/pseuds/alittlelesssixteencandles
Summary: “Mandalorians are very cunning warriors, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon begins. “The Duke’s son himself has spent his entire life training to follow their Creed, as well as his preparation to claim the throne. House Kryze, on the other hand, is pacifistic, as you well know. Satine Kryze has not been raised to be a warrior like her cousin, but she isn’t defenceless. Both will be able to handle themselves quite well in a fight, I believe. You are merely an added security detail. Listen to the Duke,” he presses, and lays a firm hand on his padawan’s shoulder. “but if the situation arises, do what you feel is necessary to preserve the heirs’ lives.”
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Satine Kryze, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Satine Kryze & CC-2224 | Cody
Series: jorso'ran kando a tome [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825465
Comments: 15
Kudos: 174





	1. PRELUDE

**Author's Note:**

> no beta we die like men

CORUSCANT, 34BBY

_“Members of the Jedi Council, my name is Jango Fett,”_ the hologram begins. iTS speaker is a tall man, donned in beskar armour and the regalia of the Mandalorian Duchy— _the_ _Mand’alor_ , Obi-Wan whispers to himself. Fett continues. _“I know our peoples have had disagreements in the past. But now I come to you with a plea— and a gesture of allegiance, should you help us._

_“As you well know_ Manda’yaim _has been rising to the brink of another civil war for nearly ten years. The figurehead of_ Kyr’tsad _has shown itself again in Vizsla’s grandson, and once more have they declared war on my people. Vizsla does not dare challenge for the throne while I hold it because he knows I hold the rightful favour of the_ Mando’ade _. But my heirs are of age, and the time has come that I step down as Duke. However, I cannot do that while we are amid war— as the law forbids, unless I am killed,”_ Fett pauses. _“Even then,_ Manda’yaim _lies in the lives of my son and niece. Kote Fett and Satine Kryze are approaching ascendancy, and Vizsla seeks to have them killed so that he will meet no opposition._

_“Our forces are more than able to combat_ Kyr’tsad _. However, it is not safe for my heirs to stay here during this conflict, and while I am able to spare security to watch them there are far too many assassination attempts for me to hold at bay. This is why I beg for your aid. Send a Jedi to Keldabe to protect my heirs. I am not asking for Republic backing in this conflict, I simply wish that the lives of two innocents be spared. Surely,”_ Fett implores, _“we can set aside our differences. Do this,_ Jetiise _, and we will be in your debt.”_

The recording cuts out in a cerulean flicker. The Council chamber is silent for a few moments— until Obi-Wan realizes that they’re waiting for _him_ to speak, not Master Jinn who stands beside him, and he turns an embarrassing shade of red as he clears his throat.

“Am I to be sent to Mandalore, Masters?” He asks, tentatively making eye contact with those in surrounding him.

“Not alone, you will not. Accompany you, Jinn will,” Master Yoda hums. Obi-Wan nods solemnly, restraining a breath of relief— though, it would be retracted from him anyway, at the next words that reach his ears.

“But the task of protecting the heirs falls to you, Kenobi,” Windu begins. “Master Jinn will be dispatched to aid the Duke in whichever way he is needed, even if he is only to return to Coruscant. Either way, you will be escorted to the city of Keldabe as it remains an active war zone. That is, if you’re up to the task?” he inquires. Obi-Wan knows it isn’t a question.

“Of course, Master Windu. I will protect the Duke’s heirs with my life.” He responds, unable to help but feel a flutter of excitement— this isn’t his first solo mission, yet the sheer importance that weighs with this task is enough to make his heart feel like its going to break through his ribcage. _That, or his nerves are snapping in two_.

“Mandalorians are very cunning warriors, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon begins. “The Duke’s son himself has spent his entire life training to follow their Creed, as well as his preparation to claim the throne. House Kryze, on the other hand, is pacifistic, as you well know. Satine Kryze has not been raised to be a warrior like her cousin, but she isn’t defenceless. Both will be able to handle themselves quite well in a fight, I believe. You are merely an added security detail. Listen to the Duke,” he presses, and lays a firm hand on his padawan’s shoulder. “but if the situation arises, do what you feel is necessary to preserve the heirs’ lives.”

“Then it is settled. You are dismissed, Padawan Kenobi. Prepare for your departure, your shuttle will depart at dawn.” Windu finishes tersely, to which Obi-Wan bows before exiting the Council chamber, leaving Qui-Gon’s side.

Despite the presence of the Temple guards standing silent and rigid behind him, he utters a heavy breath of— _well_ , he doesn’t know _what_ , except for the fact that being summoned to a gathering of the full Council and having to act like you’re not shaking from nervousness, and pretend that the Jedi Masters on said Council can’t tell that you are— _okay_. _He sighs in relief_. Not because he’s anxious, certainly not. It’s just that he’s going to be a bodyguard to Mandalorian royalty and their fate, the fate of an _entire system_ lies with him. He rakes his fingers through his short-cropped hair as he starts walking in the direction of his and Qui-Gon’s shared quarters, mentally running over the list of what he needs. He pats his hand over his hip, his palm met by the soothing, cool metal touch of his lightsaber.

He’ll need to brush up on his Mando’a, spend a few hours going over the archives for information on _Kyr’tsad_ — Death Watch— he draws in a bated breath.

Obi-Wan knows he’s capable. However, Obi-Wan also knows that Mandalorians _do not_ like Jedi, and the Duke’s son definitely won’t be an exception. Satine Kryze shouldn’t be an issue, because he knows her— or, he’s _met_ her, once, and pacifists typically don’t have a deep-rooted animosity to a Jedi padawan that they’ve only been acquainted to as children. _He hopes_.

The door to his flat slides open with a hiss, and the padawan is greeted by the comforting sight of warm light seeping through the shade slats of the window that centres the far wall. Sleeping alcoves are indented on both sides of the apartment, and a small refresher branches from the main room.

Now, Jedi aren’t _supposed_ to have material possessions, but both his and his master’s excuses are that harbouring various plant species in their tiny apartment is but a reflection of the living force. At first, Qui-Gon balked at the discrepancy. Their collection of fauna has steadily increased into the state that one might say Obi-Wan has created his own private greenhouse. He plucks a withered leaf from a nearby fern and lets it fall idly to the potting soil on his way to the small closet by his alcove. Inside it hangs a change of robes and two cloaks— all of which he folds and places within a bag at the foot of his bed. _Packed_. He blinks, somewhat disappointed, and places his hands on his hips as he turns to inspect the room. It’s tidy, as usual, with nothing out of place. Thinking better of it, he turns back to his closet and opens a drawer to pull out a blank holopad, ready to charge with archive data— specifically the Mando’a crash course he plans on taking during the trip through hyperspace. _No_ , he’s _not_ purposefully neglecting this studies on Bothan politics, and the six dialects of Rodian that he’ll be tested for at the end of the rotation, and— Obi-Wan cuts himself short.

_The Duke’s heirs are more important_.

He’ll be leaving Coruscant in less than nine hours to spend _Force knows how long_ on a Jedi-hostile planet in the midst of a coup. He’s never been tasked with a mission this important in his life, and he’ll be doing it without the guidance of his master, _and_ he’ll be left only with the lessons he’s learned, the training he’s been given, as well as two eighteen-year-old Mandalorians who probably hate his guts. _Wonderful_.

Sighing heavily again, he moves across the floor to sit cross-legged on one of the circular mats placed by the window, closes his eyes, and falls into the Force.

For a while, all is quiet, as if time has completely slowed to a standstill. Obi-Wan can’t even hear his own breathing— what for the plaintive ringing that has begun to sing in his ear. Then follows the familiar sensation of the Force’s presence rippling across his skin. He breathes, deeply, letting himself completely immerse into the lull of meditation.

He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, yet it feels like hardly a minute has passed ere he’s gently woken by Qui-Gon come dawn.

* * *

KELDABE, MANDALORE

Kote’s eyes snap open with his father’s hand covering his mouth. His eyes are wild in the dark— and he reaches for the blade beneath his pillow until he adjusts to the darkness. Jango pulls his hand back, pressing a finger to his lips as he beckons his son to rise from his bed.

“ _Me’bana, buir?_ ” he hisses, throwing his sheets back and sliding from the bed with the vibroblade gripped tightly in his palm. The night air is cold against the bare skin of his chest— his father is in his nightclothes, yet the hilt of the _dha’kad_ is swinging at his hip and the hard look that’s only ever reserved for his _aru’e_ is directed at _him_ — or not, because there’s something close to fear glinting in his eyes as he helps Kote shuffle into his _kute_ and _beskar’gam_ in the pitch-black, both fumbling for the straps and magnetic clasps that hold the armour in place.

Jango doesn’t speak a word until he shoves Kote’s helmet into his hands.

“They’re coming for you _tonight_ , _ner ad’ike_. You must go now.”

“ _Me’ven_?” he blurts, still disoriented from sleep. “I’m not gonna leave you, buir.”

“The _Jetii_ will meet you on Concordia. _Do not let her out of your sight._ ” Jango orders firmly, gripping Kote’s forearms. “ _Ba’slanar._ I’ll send for you in one week’s time. By then we’ll have cleaned the _aruetiise_ out from our city. _Trust me_ ,” he whispers. “Kal will stay with you and Satine until the _Jetii_ arrives.”

Kote nods. A muscle in his jaw twitches. Jango moves one hand up to place on his son’s nape and presses their foreheads together.

After a few seconds, they part.

“ _K’oyacyi, ner Kote_.”

Kote leans into his father’s touch for a moment more before sliding his _buy’ce_ on and sealing it. Jango passes him a small packed bag— likely stocked with ammunition and rations, nothing more— before guiding him toward the door and through the mansion’s corridors. The further they get, more guards silently join the procession until Kote and Jango are completely surrounded on all sides by the time they make it to the nearest landing pad, where a small ship stalls with Skirata waiting in front. Kote moves toward it as Jango slows to a stop, watching him depart— until the teenager whirls and throws his arms around his _buir_ in a tight embrace. Jango reciprocates it, bringing up a hand to rest on the back of his son’s head.

“Go, _verd’ika_. I’ll see you soon.” The man breathes. Kote pulls away and stalks up the ship’s gangplank without looking back.

In the distance, explosions rumble and a bright plume of fire rises from a building— or, what’s left of it. Jango has already turned to rush inside the mansion gates, likely to ready himself for the inevitable fight.

The boy slumps into the co-pilot’s seat, not bothering to acknowledge Satine, who sits beside him, donning a blatantly terrified expression as she watches the black curls of acrid smoke rise to Keldabe’s dome with wide eyes. Not long after, Kal takes the chair to Kote’s right without a word and pilots the ship off the landing pad and out of the city’s confines, into the smog-coated horizons of Mandalore, the night already growing colder and colder still as dying stars begin dotting the skies like bullet holes. Kote might have the heart to marvel at the sight that he sees so rarely these days, after the feeling of being trapped for so long within the fortress he calls home, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s been forced to leave his _buir_. A selfish feeling dawns on him that even though he knows what’s at stake, for his people, for _Manda’yaim_ as a whole, he doesn’t _care_.

Brushing off the intrusive thought, he closes his eyes and focuses on— nothing. He lets himself zone out, not fully intending to fall back asleep, though not making any effort to resist when he feels Kal slide his helmet off and lay a blanket over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> padawan obi is eighteen bc i said so <3
> 
> manda’yaim — mandalore  
> kyr’tsad — death watch  
> jetiise — jedi (pl.)  
> me’bana — what’s happening, what’s going on  
> buir — father (lit. parent. mando’a is gender neutral)  
> dha’kad — darksaber  
> aru’e — enemy  
> kute — bodysuit, bodyglove. warn under the armour.  
> beskar’gam — armour  
> ner adi’ke — my little son/daughter (can be used for any age)  
> me’ven — huh? what? (bewilderment)  
> ba’slanar — leave, go, depart  
> aruetiise — traitors, outsiders  
> jetii — jedi  
> k’oyacyi — come back, stay alive (can also be used to mean ‘cheers!’)  
> ner kote — my glory  
> buy’ce — helmet  
> verd’ika — little soldier (can also mean the rank private, context critical)


	2. ONE— ALTRUISM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " He glowers as he rests his helmet on a stone, forcing himself to come to terms with what will— inevitably, as the movement of two cloaked figures peer over the cliff— be his life for the foreseeable future. "

Kote sits on a crag overlooking Skirata’s ship. In the horizon, a bleeding red sun rises over the rocky canyons of Concordia, speckled every so often with mining facilities both new and abandoned in the ages before. The night was tense— leaving Kote and his companions with the vague sense that something, _someone_ was watching them, though every time they looked over their shoulders all that greeted them was the whistle of wind sliding through and over cracks in the cliff sides around them.

“Kote,” Satine calls, or interrupts his thoughts, because the adolescent hasn’t yet decided if he still enjoys his cousin’s company, or if she’s turned into a royal, pacifistic pain in his _shebs_. His name rolls off her tongue in the odd way that most Mando’a words are enunciated in the Kalevalan accent, sounding less like it should and more like _‘koh-dee’_ , though the difference could be easily missed to most. _But not to him_. He bites his inner cheek.

“What?” he replies gruffly, twisting to glance at the approaching figure. She’s grown since the last time he saw her properly— nearly six months ago, which was when the attacks on Keldabe and Sundari had first started. She’s nearly as tall as he is now, though she’s remained slender and willowy as if the slightest gust of wind could send her toppling to the ground in a crumpled heap of gangling limbs and straw-coloured hair. In the dim morning light, she seems paler than ever— a stark contrast to the warm brown colour of Kote’s own skin, mottled with even darker sunspots and various scars from nicks and scratches over the years.

Satine is almost physically flawless by Core standards, even for a girl who hardly looks a day over fifteen. Most of Sundari’s citizens look similar, speak with the same lofty, clipped pronunciation and walk with the refined and dignified gait as the dignitaries of House Kryze do. Satine’s version of _Manda’yaim_ , the one _she_ grew up in, couldn’t be farther from the tightly-knit familiarity of Kote’s own life. While Sundari is known for beautiful- superfluous- architecture, in a way that mimics the upper levels of Coruscant yet entirely puts it to shame, is nothing in comparison to the fortress stronghold Keldabe. The pride of the traditional _Mando’ade_ , both a terror and wonder, built to withstand a decade-long siege or twice that number. Its people reflect it. They’re strong, resilient… and rather hard-headed.

Kote has been raised to fight. And it isn’t that he dislikes Satine, or that he thinks she’s a useless _di’kut_ when it comes to combat. She knows honour and truth and has a staggering quality of vigour, both unexpected and unpredictable. He simply… doesn’t agree with the future she’s been raised to believe in. That Mandalore can— and should change. That they should forgo the ways of the _Resol’nare_ for the sake of ‘peace’. Kote knows peace. True peace. He wants it, and so does everyone he knows and loves, yet he can’t bring himself to subject to the thought of taking off his beskar permanently. He both hates and longs for the concept of life without conflict. But longing— hatred, more so, won’t help anyone.

“Kal picked up a ship on the sensors. The Jedi ship,” she says. If Kote didn’t know better, he might think she sounds nervous. And yet, she looks hopeful. Excited. The bridge of Kote’s nose wrinkles in distaste, but he utters a relenting sigh as he stands from his crouched position to link an arm through Satine’s to escort her— the way he was taught, though he’d rather not touch her for fear of invoking her wrath when she inevitably notices the layer of dried mud on his sleeve from when he wrestled Atin in the Pit. _Really_ , he _did_ mean to wash it before he left, but he never got around to actually _doing_ it. If Satine can smell him, which she most likely can, she doesn’t comment on it.

They settle into mutual silence for a few minutes, during which they descend the gradual incline of the cliffside, walking down a slope in the rear until they reach the shallow canyon’s floor. Kal waits for them, stoking the coals of a smouldering fire that heats a pot of something suspiciously fragrant. and keeping a watchful eye on the approaching vessel.

“ _Scran_ ’s ready, boy,” he barks out gruffly, shoving a tin cup into Kote’s hand while gesturing at the stew-like substance.

“What is it?”

“Nothin’ you won’t eat,” Kal answers vaguely, folding his arms across his chest. Rumbling, Kote kneels by the fire and serves himself a dish of the stuff while the group waits for the shuttle to land on the large rock shelf above their position. There’s no room to land in the canyon alongside Skirata’s own ship, meaning Kote will have enough time to finish his less-than-appetizing meal before the _Jetiise_ work their way down to them.

He glowers as he rests his helmet on a stone, forcing himself to come to terms with what will— inevitably, as the movement of two cloaked figures peer over the cliff— be his life for the foreseeable future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mando'a translation  
> manda'yaim — mandalore  
> mando'ade — mandalorians  
> shebs — ass  
> di'kut — idiot  
> resol'nare — the tenets of mando life  
> scran — food, grub  
> jetiise — jedi (plural)


End file.
